


crushed and blue

by pratktcven (calciseptine)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Chokers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 16:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/pratktcven
Summary: The boy is wearing two rainbow-colored jelly chokers, one stacked right on top of the other.Huh,Shiro thinks.That's cute.





	crushed and blue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://kitausu.tumblr.com/post/164389897821/but-consider-lance-wearing-a-choker-and-shiros) by [@kitausu](https://tmblr.co/mojzqL3lPAfOa_ElxdaXVIg).
> 
> Please note that this fic describes a relationship between a TA and a student, so if that bothers you, I would not recommend this fic. Both Shiro and Lance are 18+.

`WK01.MON.AUG21.`

There is no air conditioning in the lecture hall. Budget cuts, Shiro guesses. Or maybe there was no air conditioning to begin with. Summer ends quickly here, as August fades into September, and the heat often dissipates into chill within a week or two.

Shiro sighs. Looks up. The windows have been opened to tempt a nonexistent breeze, but the only thing they let in is the drone of dying cicadas. The hum nearly drowns out the professor's monotone. Shiro's eyes droop. He struggles to stay awake, weighed down by the oppressive heat and boredom, and almost misses the professor's cue to hand out the syllabus.

Almost.

With a repressed yawn, Shiro stands and tucks the stack of papers atop his prosthesis. As the professor explains his stance on late work, missed tests, and plagiarism, Shiro walks slowly up the stairs. He gives each row a sheaf of carefully counted papers and tells them quietly to pass them down the line.

The boy at the end of the fifth row smiles at him. Whispers, "Thanks," before turning to give the girl several seats down the rest. He has to stretch to reach her, a movement which exposes the slender line of his neck. Shiro notes that the boy is wearing two rainbow-colored jelly chokers, one stacked right on top of the other.

_Huh,_ Shiro thinks. _That's cute._

The thought disappears as quickly as it comes and, after an imperceptible pause, Shiro begins to count the number of students in the next row. It's going to be a long morning.

.

`WK01.WED.AUG23.`

Shiro sits for most of the second lesson. He does not repeat the mistake of a button-down and slacks; today he is in black straight leg jeans and a lavender t-shirt made of a breathable linen blend. He sips on his vanilla iced latte quietly, hoping that the cold and the caffeine will prevent his attention from wandering.

It does.

Barely.

Halfway through the lecture, Shiro's attention snags on the boy at the end of the fifth row. Like many other students, his gaze alternates between the prepared power point projected, his open laptop, and the cracked windows. His fingers—long and thin—touch the choker around his slender neck, a band of crushed baby blue velvet.

Their eyes accidentally meet. 

The boy smiles.

Caught, cheeks burning, Shiro quickly looks away.

.

`WK01.FRI.AUG25.`

The boy walks in a minute before class begins. He is dressed head to toe in black: baggy tank top, tight jeans, high top sneakers. A black cord is wrapped snug around his neck, a simple line interrupted by a heavy platinum circle.

_It looks like an o-ring,_ Shiro's traitorous brain supplies. Then, even more inappropriately, _He'd look really good at the end of a leash._

Shiro very deliberately turns towards the front of the room and spends the rest of the lecture staring at the professor's slides like his life depends on it.

.

`WK02.MON.AUG28.`

The cicadas outside the classroom wail in the rising heat, providing the perfect backdrop for the stifling humidity that has built up inside the lecture hall. A few students are asleep, their faces tucked down into the crooks of their arms. Neither Shiro nor the professor say anything. This is a 100-level history class, and many of the students are taking it for a required humanities credit.

Shiro's eyes flicker to the boy at the end of the fifth row.

To his neck.

To the tiny red ribbon knotted over his adam's apple.

Outside, the cicadas continue to scream.

.

`WK02.WED.AUG30.`

Today, the boy wears a chain of golden daises. The centers are made of cubic zirconia and—as the sun rises above the treetops and bathes the lecture hall in mid-morning light—the fake diamonds adorning his throat sparkle.

.

`WK02.FRI.SEP01.`

It is the last day of the semester for students to drop out of class with no repercussions, and the number of people who enrolled in _Introduction to World History_ has dwindled from 250 to 187. Of that, only a hundred or so continue to come to show up, and the once crowded lecture hall is less than half full.

Not that Shiro blames the absentees. Everything the professor says is taken directly from his overly-wordy slides, and all slides are available online the same day they are used in class. Combined with the professor's ability to make everything sound dry and irrelevant, Shiro honestly wonders why anyone bothers to come at all.

And if the boy—his choker a line of glinting pyramid studs—begins to sits at the end of the second row, Shiro assumes it's to see the fine print in the slides better.

.

`WK03.MON.SEP04.`

Shiro rarely sleeps in. He is a creature of habit who wakes up at six, goes for his standard run, then returns to his apartment to shower, dress, and make drip coffee. He eats a banana, a slice of peanut butter toast, and a handful of almonds while the coffee percolates. When said coffee is finished, he dumps as much as he can into his gigantic thermos and sweetens it with whatever creamer his roommates haven't touched. Then, half an hour before morning classes begin at eight, Shiro is out the door and prepared to face the day.

The only difference between today and any other day is that classes have been recessed for the holiday.

This does not matter much to Shiro. He heads to the main library instead of the lecture hall; he has several papers to finish and a few chapters to catch up on, something that is easier for him to do away from the distraction of home. He loves his roommates, he does, but he's let Allura and Matt sidetrack him too much in the past couple of weeks. He needs to hunker down and spend the day being productive.

This is, of course, when Shiro sees the boy across the street.

Luckily, the boy is with a friend, and he doesn't see Shiro stare at his dusky rose crop top, distressed light wash jeans, and metallic slip-ons. He is too far away for Shiro to make out the details of his choker, but he can tell it's there, a stark line of white against his skin. It isn't until they have almost passed one another that the boy notices him.

"Oh," the boy says when he sees Shiro. Smiles. Waves. "Hi!"

"Hi," Shiro croaks as he waves back helplessly. There must be a strange expression on his face because the friend—a big guy with dark hair and an impressive shoulder tattoo—raises an eyebrow. 

Shiro curses internally as he drops his hand and forces himself to keep walking. For the sake of his sanity, he needs to keep the exchange from going further. It takes more willpower than he expects, but he manages it, and he enters the library feeling triumphant. This hubris lasts as long as it takes him to find an empty table, to sit down, and to absently wonder if the boy's choker was made of lace or not.

This time, Shiro curses aloud.

.

`WK03.WED.SEP06.`

Shiro is the first to get to the lecture hall, ten or fifteen minutes before class begins at eight. Sometimes, a few early birds are waiting in the vestibule, hunched over cups of coffee or their phones. No one is there today when Shiro unlocks the door and turns on the lights. Not that he expects it. Many students become progressively lax about their schedule as the semester wears on, choosing to get five more minutes of sleep instead showing up five minutes early to their first lesson.

Once the other doors are unlocked, Shiro grabs the old combo desk from the corner. The chair is made of faded plastic, its sheen long lost, and the small table attached to the right arm is barely big enough to fit Shiro's laptop and medium-sized coffee cup. Only years of experience save him from knocking both to the floor when someone says,

"Hey."

Shiro looks up sharply. He's surprised to see the boy in front of him; the boy is one of those students who always walks in a bare minute before the professor begins his lecture, not that Shiro pays him special attention or anything.

"Hey," Shiro responds. "Can I… help you with something?"

The boy grins. Licks his gloss-tacky lips. Swallows. Shiro struggles to ignore the way it makes his choker—a plain blue cord with a star pendant—cut gently into his skin.

"Well, no, not really," the boy says. "I just realized that—when I saw you the other day—that we've never been introduced, _mano a mano_. I mean, I know you probably have a thousand and one undergrads to take care of but…" The boy shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that causes his wide-neck shirt to slip further down one shoulder, then holds out his hand. "I'm Lance. Well, technically, my name is Leandro Santiago Almodóvar Fuentes, but most people just stick with Lance."

_Cute,_ Shiro thinks as he lifts his right arm. Aloud, he returns, "Takashi Shirogane. But most people just stick with Shiro."

There's an awkward pause when Lance realizes that Shiro's right arm is a prothesis. This is not unusual, as most people tend not to notice that it's fake until they're up close. Luckily, Lance's hesitation ends as quickly as it arose. He treats the gesture normally, wrapping his hand around Shiro's unfeeling fingers before pumping up and down a couple times. Shiro may not be able to gauge the firmness of Lance's grip, but he can still tell that Lance has a good handshake.

"So what are you drinking?" Lance asks when he lets go.

Unphased by the non-sequitur, Shiro answers, "An iced vanilla latte with an extra shot." 

"From the campus coffee shop?"

"Oh, god no." Shiro laughs and shakes his head. "That stuff is awful! No—I go to this café a few blocks south of campus. _This Beans Business_."

"Wait," Lance interrupts. "The name of the café is _This Beans Business_?" When Shiro nods in affirmation, Lance giggles. The sound is pitched lower than Shiro expects. "That is honestly the best name I've ever heard for a coffee shop."

"You should try it," Shiro recommends. "They have the best espresso, but if you're not a coffee drinker, they have a lot of alternatives, like bubble tea. Also, they're open until midnight on weekdays. I practically lived there during my junior year."

Shiro and Lance talk for the next ten minutes while the lecture hall slowly fills up. Lance smiles easily; gestures with not only his hands but his entire body; and frequently touches his choker, an absent motion that Shiro follows every time. And even though Lance never says anything about it—or gives any indication that he notices the stray of Shiro's gaze—Shiro still feels obvious, and is glad for the barrier of his small desk between them.

"Guess that's my cue to sit down," Lance murmurs when the professor shuffles in. "Same time Friday?"

"Same time Friday," Shiro says.

.

`WK03.FRI.SEP08.`

Lance is not in the vestibule when Shiro arrives. Shiro feels a twinge of disappointment beneath his breastbone that he immediately quashes. He is earlier than usual—here to prepare for the first test—and no one, not even the professor, shows up twenty-five minutes before the lecture starts.

Shiro opens the door. Flicks the light switch. Makes sure the other doors are unlocked, then grabs his desk. He doesn't sit down immediately, choosing instead to lean against the wall and grin coffee from his thermos. Allura bought coconut creamer on her last grocery store run; she prefers hazelnut, Shiro knows, but on will on occasion branch out.

(Coconut is Shiro's favorite, and he tends to add more than usual to his thermos. It's a good thing that Allura always buys the largest bottle possible.)

Students begin to trickle in around 7:40. Some faces are familiar and some are not. The students who tend to skip stay further away from the front while the ones who show up every day take their regular seats. It is quiet save for the rustle of paper, the click of laptop keys, and murmured variations of, "How hard do you think this is going to be?"

A lot of the students toss nervous glances in Shiro's direction. He understands their anxiety. Different professors have different testing styles, and not knowing if the teacher likes trick questions or if they are more straight-forward can be nerve-wracking. He wants to tell them not to worry—this is just an entry-level history class, after all—but he keeps his face as neutral as possible and sips at his coffee. They'll find out soon enough.

Shiro has nearly emptied his thermos by the time Lance arrives at 7:56. He's dressed in jeans that cling to his long legs, an over-sized graphic tee, and a plain black choker. He gives Shiro a small, harried smile as he descends the stairs, then plops into his normal seat at the end of the second row. His hair is a mess of curls. He yawns—wide and long—and rubs roughly at his eyes.

_Oh._ Shiro's cheeks flush with embarrassed realization. _He overslept._

Shiro pushes off the wall and busies himself until the professor walks in. The professor gives the class a quick overview of the test, which is a simple twenty-five multiple choice with a short essay, then hands Shiro the copies to pass out.

"When you're finished, please place your test on my desk," the professor drones. Shiro hands the first row their copies. "You may begin as soon as you receive your test."

Lance smiles contritely as Shiro steps up. He mouths, _Sorry_.

Shiro shrugs gently and smiles back. Whispers, "Good luck," as he hands Lance the counted stack of tests, then moves onto the next row of students. He knows he shouldn't have favorites—that he should see each student equally—but…

Lance tugs on his choker in concentration.

.


End file.
